


The Roads Not Taken

by Idrils_Scribe



Series: Under Strange Stars [7]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arnor, BAMF Glorfindel, Brotherly Affection, Culture Shock, Easterling Culture, Easterlings, Elrohir's Colourful Past, Elves Are Beautiful, Elves Are Terrifying, Elvish Foresight, Elvish Magic, Embarrassing Elves, Erestor's Colourful Past, First Meetings, Fëanorian Erestor, Gen, Glorfindel is a Good Friend, Glorfindel's Battle Rage, Glorfindel's Expensive Tastes, Gondor, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Khand, Languages, Middle-earth Geopolitics, Period Typical Attitudes, Protectiveness, Sea-longing, Swordplay, Therapeutic Swordplay, Unreliable Narrator, Weird Elven Sexual Mores
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2020-12-27 00:08:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21109433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Idrils_Scribe/pseuds/Idrils_Scribe
Summary: A collection of outtakes and deleted scenes written for the Under Strange Stars series. Are you wondering how Elrohir's long journey came to be, or which alternative universes didn't make the cut? Want to read more about the characters? Take a look over here, at what might have been ...Chapter 7: Sketches





	1. An Unexpected Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was cut from ['Northern Skies'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18000500/chapters/42524900) at some point after Chapter 14.

The young Khandian was as brave as she was curious, to wander among the marble bookshelves this deep into the great library of Imladris. 

Elrohir knew that delegations from Khand and Rhûn had come to the valley. Negotiations with Arnor and Gondor were the crowning achievement to a long-year of diplomatic efforts to unmake Sauron’s influence in the East. Faint echoes of the whirlwind that was Elrond’s house abuzz with diplomats, courtiers and interpreters of every kindred had seeped into Elrohir’s seclusion in the family wing. That very morning Elladan had departed the twins’ rooms dressed in what Elrohir thought were frighteningly pompous robes of state, to attend the official reception over which Elrond and Celebrian would preside. 

Elrond had been apologetic, but firm when he explained matters to Elrohir. Imladris could not afford any gaffes or a potential repeat of the Yestarë incident while hosting representatives of three kings of Men in search of a fragile peace. Elrohir found himself relegated to a day’s calligraphy practice in the library. It seemed that this girl had suffered a similar fate.

She could not be a day above twenty, and Elrohir liked her on sight. Her sleek hair was as blue-black as a magpie’s wing, her keen eyes the colour of cinnamon, with a sparkle of daring mischief. Judging from the gold thread on the galloping horses embroidered around the collar and cuffs of her silk tunic she might be a well-to-do merchant’s daughter, perhaps even a noble. Above all she was Mortal, the first human being Elrohir had come face to face with since Glorfindel led him out of the gates of Tharbad. A sudden, soul-deep longing winded him like a physical blow at the sight of her, but she failed to notice.

Her delicate face lit up at the pages of calligraphy in bright red and blue ink Elrohir had spread out on his work table. To the discerning eye of an Elvish loremaster they were obviously beginner’s exercises, rows upon rows of identical Tengwar done on reed paper instead of precious vellum, but Khand’s nomadic tribes were not given to bookishness and Elrohir’s scribblings were likely the finest his unexpected visitor had ever laid eyes on. 

She tried her best to tell Elrohir so in Numenorean so halting it was barely understandable. Her first great journey abroad, then. 

Elrohir smiled warmly to counter the shock his words were about to cause. “Thank you for your kind words, young horse-mistress, and welcome to Rivendell.”

The Khandian girl was briefly struck silent with astonishment at being addressed in flawless Khandic by an unknown Elvish scribe. She did demonstrate a lordly upbringing by how quickly she recovered.

“And I thank you for so gracious a welcome. May I be so bold as to ask the name of my kind host? Mine is Vidumavi*, daughter of Vidugavia, of the Clan of the Golden Serpent.”

She raised her folded hands to her forehead in the traditional Khandic greeting, which Elrohir returned in kind. 

“I am Elrohir, second son of Elrond of Rivendell. What brings your clan so far west?”

Vidumavi’s eyes widened, and she folded in half like a jackknife with the depth of her bow. The Khandic sign of great respect and submission briefly confused Elrohir. It was too much, from one young noble to another. Only then did the realisation strike that Vidumavi was ill at ease with Elves, and she clearly believed Elrohir was one. His elation waned as quickly as it had come. He nonetheless gestured for Vidumavi to take the chair next to his own, and the girl sat down eagerly. She was as keen to have a proper conversation with an Elf as Elrohir was for this unlooked-for fragment of the world he once knew. 

“Elrond’s people are truly hospitable, if even their princes afford such kindness to passing travellers.” Vidumavi said. “My father seeks to trade silk and jade for Elvish blades, and we have found the finest of those in your father’s house.”

Elrohir smiled, and delighted in the expression mirrored in Vidumavi’s face, all bluster and the untried confidence of youth. The daughters of Khand were not easily cowed.

“I have no steel to trade, but perhaps you will give me some news nonetheless? What word from Khand? Is Matharavi still Leader of All Clans?”

Vidumavi shook her head. Her posture relaxed as she launched into her tale. “He died in the autumn, may the Golden Sun have his soul. The Great Gathering convened on the winter pastures and the clans chose …”

“Elrohir!”

Ardil’s raised voice tore through the library’s hallowed silence like a knife through silk. His long legs ate up the tiles as he sprinted towards them from amidst the surrounding bookcases, face pale with shocked concern. For a heart-stopping moment Elrohir believed his guardian must have some urgent and terrible news to relay. In the next heartbeat Ardil inserted himself between Elrohir and Vidumavi. With a visceral jolt Elrohir recognised that particular stance. Ardil was among a highly select few who went armed in the inner sanctum of Elrond’s household. The warrior did not have his hidden knife in hand just yet, but he stood ready to draw it in the blink of an eye and slice Vidumavi’s throat to the bone. 

Vidumavi was princess of a warlike tribe, and she recognized her peril. She knew better than to startle backwards or make any brusque movement, and instead laid both hands on the polished oak of the tabletop, empty palms up. 

“I mean your prince no harm!” she stuttered at the irate Elf-warrior looming over her, reverting to her halting Numenorean. 

For a small eternity the three of them stood motionless as if encased in clear glass. Elrohir’s heartbeat drummed in his ears as he racked his brain on how to go about incapacitating Ardil long enough for Vidumavi to escape with her life. 

Erestor averted a tragedy when his sonorous voice echoed between the bookshelves in perfect Khandic. “I do not doubt it, Lady Vidumavi, but Lord Elrohir’s guard is rather thorough where his safety is concerned.”

Erestor emerged from the doorway of his private study. The formidable loremaster looked truly intimidating in his formal robes of a maroon velvet so dark it seemed almost black. Somewhere behind Elrohir’s back a door clattered and Istiel, one of the younger loremistresses, dashed in from the general direction of her own workroom with the pale, tight-lipped expression of one whose dire mistake has just been exposed by their superior. Clearly she was supposed to be keeping an eye on the girl.

“If you would be so kind as to follow Mistress Istiel, she will direct you to a number of very interesting histories of your people.”

Erestor’s remark was no mere suggestion and Vidumavi rose as if her chair had caught fire, casting a fleeting glance at Elrohir as she was shepherded away. Ardil did not relax until the door of Istiel’s study had closed behind the hapless loremistress and her charge.

“Elrohir, are you well?” Ardil’s eyes darted up and down Elrohir’s body as if he expected to find a mortal wound hidden somewhere. 

Elrohir was in no mood to be coddled. “What possessed you!? She meant me no harm, we were only talking!”

Ardil’s eyes and mind flashed with a hot anger born from terror. His hand came down heavily on Elrohir’s shoulder. “Sitting alone and unarmed with Dark Men is far from harmless. Have you lost your mind? She is a Variag, for Bannoth’s sake! What did you say to her!?”

Erestor intervened. “Have no fear. I overheard the whole exchange, and not an inappropriate word was spoken. Elrohir, where did you learn Khandic?”

Elrohir withstood the temptation to answer him with a churlish ‘In Khand’. “I travelled in those parts when I was a caravan attendant.”

Erestor took this information in stride while motioning Elrohir towards the open door of his study. “Come inside. I want to talk to you.” 

Erestor turned towards Ardil. “Master Ardil, my thanks for your timely intervention. Please discreetly inform Lord Elrond of the incident. Make sure Elladan is reassured that his brother is well. I will rejoin the reception shortly. Saelbeth will walk Elrohir to his rooms when we are finished.”

Ardil turned away grudgingly.

Elrohir had never set foot in Erestor’s study before. The space was much grander than Lindir’s homely abode, with tall south-facing windows interspersed with marble columns. The view of the Bruinen’s falls and the valley beyond was marvelous, but the room’s true wonder lay inside. The windows spilled a wealth of midday light onto spectacular frescoed seascapes covering the walls. The Sea seemed an unusual interest for the chief councillor of a mountain stronghold, and Elrohir filed the thought away to ask Elladan later, once this upbraiding was over. 

Opposite Erestor’s grand mahogany desk stood a round table with eight chairs, and it was there that he sat down beside Elrohir. His assistant, a good-natured Noldo who had been introduced as Saelbeth, brought strong black tea seemingly unasked before withdrawing in silence. Elrohir’s throat was parched, but he left his untouched. Trying to raise the fine porcelain cup to his mouth would betray his shaking hands. When Erestor finally spoke he did not seem at all angry or upset, but Elrohir knew well enough that reading an Elf so ancient was far beyond his abilities. 

“Ah, Elrohir… I am glad to discover another Khandic speaker among the household. Our specialist in the eastern tongues of Men sailed West after Dagorlad, leaving us short-staffed. Tomorrow you and I should take some time out of your lessons to converse in the language. I will brief you on the latest developments in the East. There has indeed been a fraught succession. Now that I know you take an interest I will keep you informed.”

Erestor paused to sip his tea and give Elrohir an uncharacteristically warm smile over the rim of his cup. “There is no need for you to mingle with your father’s guests. We will gladly answer any questions you may have about the goings-on outside Imladris.”

Elrohir had no interest whatsoever in conversing with Erestor in any language on Eru’s earth. “Am I a prisoner, that keeping me away from outsiders is worth holding a girl at knifepoint?”

“Ardil never drew his weapon.” Erestor’s benevolent facade did not slip, but his voice brooked no argument. “Commendable, given that we would have had a major diplomatic incident on our hands if he had. His response was entirely justified. Bear in mind that he carries the final responsibility for your safety. That girl might not have been as unarmed as she seemed, and women from Khand are as quick with blades as their men. The mere fact that she was able to wander in here and come face to face with you is highly irregular. Your father will not have you exposed like that, for good reason.”

The argumentation made precious little sense.

“Elladan is meeting Vidumavi’s father as we speak. Is his daughter more dangerous than he?”

Erestor shook his head. “Your brother’s conversations with our Easterling guests are well supervised exercises, part of his education in diplomacy. You will receive that same training in the future. These Variags of Khand may be guests in your father’s house, but historically they are not our allies and you cannot be allowed to risk your own safety and that of this entire realm in unsupervised exchanges with any of them. If knowledge of foreign affairs is what you seek, your father will be overjoyed to see you take an interest. He will gladly answer your questions.” 

Erestor was not a man to be crossed with impunity. Elrohir fell silent, eyes on the fine inlay of the tabletop and mind as impassive as he could achieve.

Erestor’s expression became gentle. “I look forward to teaching you, once all this is past. You will become a great help to your father. Have but a few years worth of patience, until you are well.”

*Tolkien's Vidumavi was from Rhovanion instead of Khand, and she lived over a millennium after this story takes place. I used the name because it is among very few canonical names we have for non-Edain Mortal women.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why was this particular road not taken?
> 
> I wrote this scene to show the reader the usual goings on in Rivendell, and Elrond and Celebrían's responsibilities as rulers of an Elvish realm. It does achieve just that, but at the cost of Elrohir seeming more like a prisoner held against his will than a son of the house. Holding their son captive seemed OOC for Elrond and Celebrían. I also felt it made Erestor look creepy, and portrayed Ardil as ruthless and violent.  
Elrohir could not trust any of them again after this, at least not in a believable way, so Elrohir's Khandic friend was sadly cut from Northern Skies. 
> 
> What do you think about the scene itself and the OC? Would you have liked to see them in the story? Please consider leaving me a comment. No inspiration? Kudos are nice, too! 
> 
> See you soon for another road not taken!  
Idrils Scribe


	2. Begetting Day Present

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene was cut from ['Northern Skies'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18000500/chapters/42524900) in or around Chapter 9.

The table in Elrohir’s anteroom was strewn with wax tablets bearing unreadable Elvish scribbles, as if a small but exceptionally elegant animal had hopped across their soft surfaces. Glorfindel looked up from his night’s work with a look of cheerful anticipation when Elrohir stepped from his bedroom. 

Sunrise was hours away yet. A crackling hearthfire kept the room pleasantly warm, but outside the world glittered sharp and white beneath the winter moon. Packed snow lay high on the windowsills.

“Good morning, and congratulations on your begetting day!” Glorfindel beamed as he stood to embrace Elrohir. “Elladan will be here soon, but your first gift will be from me.”

The Elf smiled with an expectant air as he passed Elrohir a small box of engraved bronze. The instant he lifted the tightly fitted lid a familiar fruity scent wafted up and Elrohir could not keep from gasping in shock.

“Glorfindel, how in Eru’s blessed name did you find dates in a country under four feet of snow?!”

Elrohir belatedly realized that sheer astonishment had made him revert to Haradi. Glorfindel’s fair face lit up at Elrohir’s delight in his unexpected gift. 

Nonetheless the answer came in crisp Sindarin. “They are imported, of course. Nenuwen came across them at the Great Market in Fornost, and she thought of you.” 

Glorfindel telling an untruth was new, and distinctly odd. For a man of so many talents he was a rather poor liar. 

Elrohir had never met Nenuwen, Elrond’s ambassador at the court of King Valandil of Arnor, but he could not imagine her going about her days in search of birthday presents for her lord’s sons. Glorfindel must have ordered the dates from some trader in Fornost Erain. They were likely the most expensive food in all of the North, given that they had been shipped all the way from South Gondor through Pelargir, Tharbad and Fornost. 

The gift’s odd mixture of thoughtfulness and opulence was so typically Glorfindel that Elrohir could not help but laugh. Glorfindel looked for all the world as if he had just won a prize. Still laughing, Elrohir half-jokingly bowed, one hand over his heart in the Haradi gesture of thankfulness. 

“Thank you very much. You are generous, Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel’s look grew soft, and his mind was open. Elrohir glimpsed wide skies of grey and silver clouds over rolling green hills, the air fresh and wet and clean. Campfires and starlit roads walked singing. Golden forests and cities of white and sailing ships. A thundering cavalry charged, their proud banners streaming in the west wind. 

“Is this a vision?”

“They are but a few threads in the weave of the coming days.” Glorfindel mused. “No doubt we will meet darker ones too, and some may slip from our fingers entirely. All Sight is imperfect, but I do believe you and I will see most of these together.” 

Glad for something to occupy his hands Elrohir poured two cups of watered wine and handed one to Glorfindel before raising his own. “At last Elladan can taste those dates I keep telling him about. Thank you for a memorable birthday gift.” 

“Begetting day. Not birthday.” Glorfindel said.

“What do you mean?”

Glorfindel carefully explained, as he had so many things. “Today we celebrate the day Elladan and you were begotten. Not the day of your birth, which is three days from now if I remember correctly.”

Once more the Sindarin language had Elrohir puzzled. “I still misunderstand, I believe. What does ‘begetting’ mean? The child’s naming?” 

Glorfindel shook his head. “A child’s first naming is called Essecarmë, and it takes place _ after _the babe is born. Begetting means conception.”

Elrohir lowered his eyes to his half-empty cup, the floor, anywhere but Glorfindel’s. Blood rushed to his face as he scrambled for a polite reply to this unexpected obscenity. On some level he was aware that Elrond and Celebrian must share a bed, but to publicly announce such base bodily functions and put on yearly celebrations of the act veered far beyond the boundaries of human propriety. 

He was suddenly half-convinced that Elves might have some ethereal way of achieving pregnancy, unknowable to Mortals. The relief was so great it showed on the surface of his mind.

A bemused Glorfindel was quick to disabuse him of the idea. “The Haradrim, and Mortals in general have some … distinct ideas. Elves are less restrained. There is no shame for parents in announcing that a child was given to them. Are Mortal children not conceived in the same manner?” 

Elrohir felt his cheeks turn a luminous beet-red. That exasperating Elf managed to sound so damned _ innocent _!

Eru Allfather in His endless mercy chose that exact moment to have Elladan burst into the room with a shout of glee and envelop Elrohir in something that was half hug, half wrestling hold. 

By the time Elrohir finished his retaliation and Glorfindel could stop laughing enough to stand up straight once more, the subject was forgotten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why was this road not taken?
> 
> Mainly because the light, humorous tone seemed too jarring, and I couldn't find a place where it worked with the surrounding scenes. It was originally meant to sprinkle in some comic relief, but these chapters are so full of night terrors and talk of fading and Ringwraiths that I just couldn't fit it in anywhere. 
> 
> Chronologically, the best spot is probably in or around chapter 9. Elrohir is no longer scared of the Elves, but he hasn't gotten used to them either and he's still very much a beloved but awkward stranger. That Elladan and Elrohir's begetting day is in the dead of winter is pure headcanon, JRRT gives us the year (TA 130), but not the date. 
> 
> What do you think of Glorfindel's characterization here, and his developing relationship with Elrohir? Would you have liked to see this scene in the story? Any thoughts on he awkwardness of the concept of begetting days?  
A comment would mean a lot to me, and kudos are also very much appreciated.
> 
> See you soon for another road not taken,
> 
> Idrils Scribe


	3. Times of Peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene takes place a couple of hours after Elrond and Elrohir's conversation in chapter 14 of ['Northern Skies'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18000500/chapters/42524900).
> 
> Chapter warning for swearing.

“Thank you, Borndis. You may leave him with me.” Glorfindel sounded positively enthusiastic despite the late hour.

With Ardil in the House of Healing, it was Borndis who had appeared in Elrohir’s rooms come evening. Instead of taking Ardil’s place in the anteroom to guard Elrohir for the night, she had led him to this unexpected meeting in the garden. The Silvan scout gave her captain a smart salute before disappearing between the silver trunks of Celebrian’s rowans. 

Glorfindel wore a padded arming jacket, and in the light of the full moon his smile lit up the silent gardens as he knelt beside an elegant chest of inlaid wood resting in the grass at his feet. 

At Elrohir’s questioning glance he answered. “Your father is convinced that he provoked yesterday’s mishap by overtiring you. I believe you were not nearly tired enough, or perhaps the wrong kind of tired. Tonight we put my theory to the test.”

Elrohir's cheeks grew hot with shame at the mention of last night’s incident. He cast his eyes down, studying the mysterious chest, and nearly startled in shock when Glorfindel opened it to reveal a pair of Elvish swords. The blades appeared oddly dark and dull, and it took Elrohir a moment to realize that they were made of wood. Glorfindel expertly flipped one around to hand it hilt-first to his bewildered charge.

“These are wasters -- weighted replicas. You will get well acquainted with them when you join my warriors. Tonight we get an early start.” 

He proceeded to hand Elrohir a padded gambeson of the kind Elf-warriors wore beneath their mail. 

Elrohir could not believe this unexpected stroke of good fortune. “Does Mother know this?” He asked as he buttoned the vest. 

Glorfindel laughed. “I have her permission to ravage the garden as needed. The training grounds are in use at the moment, and my warriors tend to watch like hawks and gossip like sparrows. You are not quite ready for your official debut.” 

Elrohir experimentally swung the strange facsimile. There had to be a metal core inside, because it balanced like a real weapon, the weight and heft familiar and pleasant in the hand. 

Glorfindel’s look was unreadable as he raised his own. “Have at me!”

Raising a blade against Glorfindel seemed unnatural. Elrohir’s opening strike was half-hearted, weak even to his own eyes. 

Glorfindel parried it effortlessly and smiled, cat-like. “I have seen better from you. Come on, Peredhel! You would have a hard time injuring me if that was a real blade.”

He laughed at Elrohir’s look of alarm.

Glorfindel was maddening. He danced away from Elrohir’s strikes, anticipating his every move and feint and bending like a willow-wisp even as he blocked with the force of solid rock. Elrohir gave his all out of sheer stubborn determination, but by the time the moon stood high above the mountains the gambeson was plastered to his skin. His heart drummed in his ears and he was nowhere near to passing the Elf’s impenetrable defences.

Elrohir put his weight behind his strike, and in that minute instant of overbalancing Glorfindel’s leg hooked behind his, quick as lighting. He met the ground with an undignified thud. It was all he could do not to fall on his own sword.

“Fuck!” The Haradi curse left his mouth before Elvish restraint could set in.

Glorfindel laughed heartily. “When pressed, you fall into your accustomed style every time. And what would be a good defense with a scimitar only serves to make you easy pickings with a longsword. I will have to make you unlearn it.“ 

That outrageous Elf was grinning as if he could not think of anything more enjoyable. As he rubbed his sore shoulder Elrohir began to wonder whether Glorfindel had truly forgiven him for being abandoned in Harad. 

Elrohir feinted, turned the other way to skewer Glorfindel from a different angle. The Elf parried, quick and limber, and danced from his grasp once more. This time Elrohir’s stumble was born of exhaustion, the dull throb of abused muscle. Glorfindel knew it. 

“Enough!” He cheerfully announced, lowering his waster. “That should send you to sleep!”

Elrohir’s stung pride was somewhat eased by the winded gasp in Glorfindel’s voice and the sweat dappling his brow as he blotted it with a linen towel. 

“Thank you.” Elrohir said. “I need to find my hand for combat again!” 

In silence Glorfindel turned to where a flask rested in the grass. Sadness stood clear in his eyes when he passed Elrohir a cup of watered wine. “You should not take up a sword for anything but enjoyment. Not for a long time yet. Be at peace, Elrohir. There will be war enough in years to come.”

Like all things made by Elves the drink was a delight: tart, golden, and just cold enough to be refreshing. 

The taste seemed to carry Glorfindel back in time. “I was ten times your age when I held my first sword, and a sorry fool I was with it! You children of Ennor have war running in your blood.” He sighed. “Alas, child, that I must teach you bloodshed instead of worthier arts! But I will teach you well. One day much will depend on your skill.”

He laid a hand on Elrohir’s shoulder, and somehow it was not strange to walk back to the house like that, separate and yet together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why was this road not taken? 
> 
> This scene, which was one of my personal favorites, ended up being cut because it seemed like too much healing too soon.  
Elrohir is seen forging a long term friendship with Glorfindel, who gives him a sense of belonging, a perspective of his future place in his new world. Having that so soon would have rendered Elrohir's flight and all that came from it redundant. Also, the one to bring Elrohir to that insight was supposed to be Elrond, not Glorfindel.  
What do you think about Glorfindel's therapeutic swordplay and his evolving relationship with Elrohir? How would Northern Skies have gone if this scene had stayed in the story? I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments! Kudos are also very much appreciated.
> 
> See you soon for another road not taken,  
Idrils Scribe


	4. The Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the opening chapter of an alternative storyline for ['Northern Skies'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18000500/chapters/42524900).  
Many thanks to Anoriath for the beta!

“Come in!”

Elrond’s private study was an inviting room, small and intimate. Wherever the eye turned it caught some artful thing of beauty - the rich whirls of colour of Noldorin mosaics, frescoes depicting Gondolin and Doriath at their pinnacle, an elegant model of Vingilot in silver and mother-of-pearl. On the far wall a great seabird spread its white wings against a star-strewn sky, a Silmaril shining on its breast. 

Elrohir breathed deeply and managed to take his seat at the table beside Elladan with a modicum of calm. At the edge of his consciousness Elladan’s mind thrummed with unease. Clearly Elrond did not summon them for an impromptu Quenya lesson. Something had to be very wrong indeed for Elrond and Celebrían to call their sons to a formal council in the presence of a stern-faced Erestor.

Elrond’s eyes had remained glued to the thick, gilt-edged parchment before him on his worktable. He was twisting the elaborate wax seals that dangled from it on ribbons of blue silk, as if the sumptuous letter had given him some personal insult. 

Once his sons were seated Elrond was mercifully quick to come to the point. “You have received a letter,” he stated dryly.

Elrohir gave his father a look of silent bafflement. He could not think of anyone he knew outside Imladris who was not dead, illiterate or both.

“A letter from Valandil,” Elrond continued, “the King of Arnor, who sees fit to invite the Sons of Elrond on a hunting expedition in the Weather Hills. This hunt is to be a grand affair: Gondor’s crown prince, who is called Eärendil - presumably in my father’s honour - will be among King Valandil’s guests.”

Judging from Elrond and Celebrían’s dismay, this royal invitation might have come from Sauron himself. Elrohir turned towards Elladan in search of an explanation and found him equally puzzled. Clearly nothing like this had ever happened before.

Elrohir tried to inject some logic. “Can you not write him back and decline?” 

Elrond smiled, a tinge of sadness in his eyes. “Were it that simple. Refusing Valandil’s hospitality would give offence to more than just the House of Isildur. Eärendil’s involvement would make it a snub to Arnor and Gondor both. Short of death or recent dismemberment there is hardly an excuse not to attend.” 

Elrohir was well aware that more was at play than the king’s desire for the pleasure of their company.

Elladan voiced both their thoughts. “What does Valandil want with us?”

Erestor gave a wry smile. “His sole purpose is for Eärendil of Gondor to speak with Elrohir.”

“Why me?” Elrohir stammered, what little eloquence he possessed in Sindarin quenched by sheer terror.

“Gondor is preparing to invade Umbar.” Elrond answered. “Young prince Eärendil is to command this conquest. The man dreams of rich spoils and a place among Gondor’s captains.”

Elrohir could only stare at his father, mute as a fish. 

Elrond filled the awkward silence. “Eärendil is ambitious, but he is also a clever tactician. He wants to question you about Umbar’s hinterlands and the state of its military.”

At that absurdity, Elrohir regained his voice. “Surely Prince Eärendil has many informants. Why would he need me?”

Elrond’s answer was matter-of-fact. “Word of the Ringwraith has spread north, and it’s making Gondor skittish. They do have a very fine army of spies, but the Haradrim are tight-lipped about what goes on in their deserts. You were one of their officers. Your news is a year old, but it remains valuable for what is to be Eärendil’s grand patriotic undertaking.” 

Elrohir’s astonishment grew by the minute. “The Crown Prince of Gondor has travelled north to meet  _ me _ ?”

Celebrían smiled wistfully. “Your stay in Pelargir caused quite the stir, once the Gondorians learned your true identity. The tale of how a merchant adventurer from Gondor found the lost Elf-Prince went all the way to court. King Cemendur summoned Círdan’s sailors and your friend Elemir to hear the story for himself.”

Elrohir knew not what to say, but inwardly he thanked every deity he could think of for having escaped Pelargir before Gondor’s royal guard came knocking at his ramshackle lodgings in the sailors’ quarter. 

Celebrían knew it, and she broke her revelation gently. “King Cemendur has been sending us a steady stream of envoys requesting access to you. We have denied them all out of concern for your health. Today’s invite is another attempt, one we cannot decline so easily. Whether we like it or not, you must hunt boar alongside Prince Eärendil.” 

Once more Elrohir was lost at sea in an unknown universe. He recalled no sign of emissaries from Gondor. He had been sheltered indeed, blissfully unaware of what went on outside Imladris while he found his feet in this new world. He did not know whether to be grateful or vexed. 

He looked Elrond in the eye. “I will go gladly. Any enemy of Umbar is my friend, and hunting is no hardship.” 

Elladan, too, seemed keen to avenge Elrohir, no matter how vicariously. 

Both Elrond and Celebrían appeared to sag with relief. “Excellent. You shall both attend King Valandil’s hunt!” 

Elladan was better versed in the intricacies of dealing with kings, and he turned towards Erestor. “Will Elrohir assist Eärendil out of the kindness of his heart? What is in this for Imladris?”

Erestor’s smile was one of pride in his student’s shrewdness. “Many things. Some as immaterial as good will between our kindreds. Others far more tangible: taxation, land rights, trade and the levies upon it. My staff are already drafting the treaties. Elrohir will indulge this ambitious princeling, and Gondor shall pay handsomely for the pleasure.” 

\----

“It is a thing of beauty, but I cannot get it on!” 

Elrohir would not dream of criticising Elvish fashion, but the formal robe of blue and silver samite that was brought to Erestor’s study for the counsellor’s final inspection was quite simply unwearable.

Erestor rose from the window seat with a sigh, part amusement, part exasperation, and deftly untangled his lord’s son from the knot he had wriggled himself into. 

“That would be because formal robes are put on with the help of another person. Which I would have given if you had let me.” 

He lifted the robe off Elrohir’s shoulders, taking care not to let the precious fabric touch the floor. Elrohir was acutely self conscious in nothing but breeches and a matching silk undertunic. 

“Elladan will give me a hand with it.” He said, just to fill the silence.

Erestor shook his head. “Elrond’s sons will not dress each other like a pair of paupers. The Princes of Arnor and Gondor will have their esquires for that, and so will you.” 

“Who would that esquire be?” Elrohir’s heart leapt in his throat. Erestor looked far too pleased with himself for this to bode well. 

Erestor gave a mock bow. “I have dressed a few princes in my day. I have not forgotten how to tie a robe.”

Elrohir could only gape at the formidable chief counselor like a stranded fish. “Why would you do that?” he finally croaked. The very idea of weeks of uninterrupted scrutiny from Erestor was enough to make him reconsider the entire hunt. 

“To keep an eye on you,” answered Erestor. “King Valandil is a shrewd man. If I present myself as your advisor we will find ourselves separated in short order, but he will not deprive you of the loyal body servant carrying your cloak.”

Elrohir clung to his last ray of hope. “King Valandil was raised in this house. He knows well enough who you are!”

Erestor chuckled. “Reality and illusion are hard to distinguish, to Mortal eyes. I will appear a wholly unremarkable manservant.”

Elrohir knew not what to say, and so he blurted out another question. “Who will be Elladan’s?”

“Ardil. Your grandfather would have a fit if we left his spy at home. We might as well put the man to use.” 

Erestor finally noticed Elrohir’s growing discomfort at his state of undress, and raised the robe once more. “Now stand still, and stretch your arms to the side.”

Elrohir did as he was told. Erestor carefully draped the intricate folds around him and started doing up the concealed fastenings with practiced ease. 

“You have done this before,” Elrohir croaked into the awkward silence blanketing the room.

Erestor smiled, and his expression grew softer. It looked strange on him. “This design came into fashion at King Finwë’s court in Tirion. I find it as beautiful as it is formal. Between Fëanor himself, his sons and your father and uncle I have indeed done this thousands of times.”

Elrohir was taken aback, both awed by Erestor’s formidable age and well aware that most of those he had named were dead. “I feel for your losses.”

“Loss is the way of Middle-earth, child. But the old is ever replaced with the new,” Erestor answered with another unfathomable smile.

“There.” Erestor took a step back to inspect his work. “An Elf-prince indeed. You could walk into the King’s Hall in Tirion without looking out of place.” 

Erestor’s utilitarian study did not contain a mirror, so Elrohir had to take his word for it. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why was this road not taken?
> 
> This was an attractive plot because it offered a great opportunity to explore the similarities and differences between Elves and Men. When I tried to outline it I realized that before Elrohir could deal with Mortal kings and princes he'd first need to recover from his PTSD and accept his place among the Elves of Imladris. That didn't seem realistic. More importantly, it would have forced me to quickly skip over Northern Skies' central themes of healing and acceptance. Valandil's royal hunt would have made an entertaining story, but not the one I wanted to tell at the time. 
> 
> I rather liked the scene with Erestor and the robes. Unfortunately I couldn't come up with an occasion where he'd be helping Elrohir into his formal wear in the final version of Northern Skies, so it had to go.
> 
> What do you think about this storyline? Would you have liked to read it? What about nostalgic Erestor? I'd love to hear from you in the comments. Kudos would be greatly appreciated. 
> 
> See you soon for another road not taken,  
Idrils Scribe


	5. Field of Battle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene is an AU for the final battle scene in chapter 9 of ['Under Strange Stars'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14460465/chapters/33406275). In this version Glorfindel and Elrohir do not meet until the battle is in full swing, and Elrohir falls off an Oliphaunt's back.

The ground slammed into Elrohir like a hammer, and once the darkness retreated from the world once more reality seemed to have gone unsteady, strangely misted and pulsing with his own heartbeat. 

His mouth filled with metal, the foul coppery tang of his own blood and for a moment he howled in panic that he might drown in it as it bubbled into his windpipe. He must have broken ribs because the pain flared with every gurgling breath, scorching him like licking flame and yet he dared not scream for terror of it. A sudden understanding struck him with another dizzying blow.

_ This is how I die. _

Elrohir had always taken pride in defying his fear of death as befitted a warrior, but now that he found himself faced with his own end, the very thought seemed an outrage, a promise unfulfilled, a loss beyond weeping. He raised his pounding head to look at - at what, really?- the gore and horror of the raging battle around him, the corpse of the commander of Umbar - and should he not be feeling satisfaction at that? It seemed utterly irrelevant. An angry cloud of red dust thrown up by ten-thousand feet nearly choked him but he did not lower his eyes, because above it rode the sun, and even though he light stung his eyes the mere sight of it seemed too precious to forsake . 

Then he saw it. The White-fiend. It had changed course and now seemed to be running straight for him, followed by others of its kind. The tall shape was armored in shining steel and gold, terrifying in its inexorable approach. Fair and yet frightful. A vicious fire shone from its alien eyes, the inhuman beauty of its face alight with battle rage, and the troops of Harad and Umbar both fled before the wrath of its shining sword. 

_ It is coming for me, _Elrohir realized with jolt of despair, and this seemed a fate even worse than death from writhing in the red dust as he drowned in his own blood. He could not stand, could not run, and there was little point in crawling. He had managed to keep hold of his sword, and from some last desperate reserve he drew the strength to lift it, though the motion made him hack up even more blood until it ran down his chin in a tiny, warm rivulet, to mix with tears of pain from the movement. 

The white-fiend swooped in with the silent rush of a hunter, and towered over him with blazing eyes. Elrohir was convinced this vision of brilliant, beautiful terror was the last sight his eyes would ever see. 

Suddenly, the blue blade rang as it was sheathed, and the tall shape sank to its knees. Empty hands came forward, almost begging, and Elrohir could only crawl backwards from their reach, panting and bubbling red foam like a bellows, his eyes wide with fear.

The Elf caught him nonetheless, easily, and hands strong as armoured steel pulled his sword from his failing grip and tossed it aside like a stick of wood. He keened in terror and kicked, weakly, but his legs beat harmlessly against the red sand while he struggled for breath in the creature’s deadly embrace. It beheld him, eyes softer now, stripped of any trace of rage and filled with a strange yearning.

“Please …” Elrohir managed to utter, though he did not knew whether he begged for rescue or the mercy of death.

It seems he was heard, because the thing opened its mouth to sing, a song like rushing wings and starlight made sound, and Elrohir sank down into sleep as dark as death.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why was this road not taken? Elrohir and Glorfindel having two separate desert adventures and not meeting until the very end didn't allow for much bonding. Glorfindel would earn some trust by healing Elrohir's injuries, but it could never be the same as with the battle against the Nazgûl from the definitive version. What I did like about this fragment is going all out on the description of how fierce, alien and terrifying Glorfindel looks in his battle rage. 
> 
> What are your thoughts about fearsome Glorfindel? Would you like to read more scenes from this AU? A comment would make my day! 
> 
> Also, a little shameless promotion for the brand new holiday story in this series: ['Time Does Not Tarry'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21935527). 
> 
> Happy holidays,  
Idrils Scribe


	6. A Strange Waking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes right after the events of the previous one, and takes place in the same AU for ['Under Strange Stars'](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14460465/chapters/33406275).  
In this earlier version, Glorfindel and Elrohir didn't meet until the final battle scene at the end of USS. Glorfindel came to Harad with a company of Elves, including Ardil. At the time I was entertaining the idea of a Gondorian invasion as a backdrop for the story, which is why their King Cemendur gets a mention.

Pain washes over him, pain like licking flame. He must move, must get away or be burned. He screams, writhing and kicking in a losing battle against the hands holding down his arms and shoulders and legs, cradling his head. If this is torture it is pointless. No one is asking him any questions, and if they would do so he could not recall as much as his own name beneath this onslaught of agony.

Many voices speak in urgency. They ring clear and bright as bells, but the words flutter away like windblown leaves and he cannot grasp them. 

A shadow moves above him and he strains to see who. For an instant he is sure he knows this man. A half-remembered face leaps from the depths of memory, the ghost of someone doubtlessly long dead. He must escape this place of phantoms and agony or he will die, too. He thrashes and flails but the hands are all over him and they are strong as steel. 

Lips are lowered to his ear, a warm puff of breath. A whisper cuts through the terror of confusion. The voice is rich and wholesome as the rustling of golden wheat. “Still. Be still. Sleep.”

A warm hand cups his face, gently as if it is a breakable thing, and in a heartbeat the pain is whisked away as if it never was. Only that voice remains, now singing a soporific litany of stillness and calm. The light beyond his eyelids stings too harshly, and he has no wish to be present for whatever is being done to his ribcage, so there seems no harm in doing as he is told. 

\----

The pain is bright and brilliant, a hot brand thrust between his ribs at every breath. His mind flutters like a startled bird. Someone moans, and with a dizzying jolt he recognizes his own voice. He must sit up and see where he has been taken, but something is wrong with his eyes and they will not open.

Waking brings a visceral, scorching thirst, the all-consuming need to wet his sticky, blood-filled mouth. Neither his eyes nor his hands will obey him, but his voice does and he rasps his plea into the smothering darkness like a prayer, an obsession. 

“Water.” 

The cup comes to his lips in a heartbeat, and he would have sobbed from sheer relief if simple breathing were not such a torment. Cool water fills his parched mouth. It tastes of honey and salt and a slight edge of some bitter herb. He has never drunk anything so wondrous. The cup disappears far too soon and he moans in protest at the loss. 

The golden voice is gentle but determined. “Sleep a little more,” it murmurs from somewhere beside his head. A hand comes to rest against his cheek, and consciousness flits from his grasp.

\----

Glorfindel sets down the cup, but he remains standing over Elrohir’s still form, watching the pained grimace smooth down into shockingly familiar traits as poppy and exhaustion pull him under once more. 

Ardil cannot help but pity his captain. Glorfindel’s air of knife-edged tension starkly contrasts his gentleness when he pulls up the coverlets and tucks them around the boy’s shoulders against the cold desert night. A small hesitation, and then he strokes a pitifully short lock back from the pale face. The small intimacy would be thoroughly impossible with Elrohir awake, and Glorfindel knows it. Elrohir scrabbling backwards with drawn blade and terror in his eyes, screaming at the mere sight of the man who should have been a second father to him had been an exquisite agony. 

“He will live. Can we not overcome all else?” Ardil asks in an attempt at comfort.

“We must get him home,” sighs Glorfindel after a long silence. “I cannot see how he would come willingly. He will heal, and once he is hale he will fight us. I know not if I have the stomach to drag him from here to Imladris bound like a prisoner. He would hate me forever, after that.” 

“You will convince him.” Ardil answers promptly, though he cannot imagine how.

\----

His eyes will not open. Something holds down his eyelids and he is caught in the dark with his hands tied. Terror washes over him at the thought of Umbar and chains and manacles. He turns and writhes as he battles the invisible restraints. Pain flares in his chest.

Something cool and fragrant touches his face, a wet cloth scented with some sweet herb. Whoever holds it carefully wipes one eye, then the other so he can blink apart the grainy silt of tears that has sealed them. Crusts come away and now he can blink into the light. The world leaps at him, bright and blinding, then settles down to the coloured inside of a tent. A soft half-light filters through walls and roof of carmine and saffron canvas. 

“You are not tied down,” says a gentle voice. Blankets are pulled back, a stream of cool air against his body. Who has piled him in these layers of wool and linen? 

“See? Lift your hands,” the voice suggests in strangely accented Númenórean.

He barely can, with his battered muscles shaking like a leaf in a storm. Then the voice’s owner moves into his line of sight from somewhere beside his head, and he nearly rolls off the bed in terror. The white-fiend has shed its golden armour, but it still carries a dagger at its hip. Alien eyes are trained on him with a gleam like starlight reflecting off a blade. 

He scrabbles away, but something tender is tearing between his ribs and the pain is breathtaking. He can only pull up his legs to hide behind his own knees for want of any other shelter from the fell creature. 

“You have nothing to fear.” The white-fiend’s eyes remain bright, almost luminous in the half-dark space, but they now hold something much like sorrow. When it reaches for him the pale, slender hands are gentle. “Please, will you not lie down? Do not hurt yourself.” 

For all his efforts he has moved but a small ways towards the edge of the bed, and the Elf effortlessly scoops him up with a grip both tender and strong as steel, and eases him back against the pillows. “My name is Glorfindel,” it says softly. “I know yours, and I mean you well. I hope we may become friends.”

This is so astonishingly absurd that he cannot help his wide-eyed stare of incredulity, half-convinced that this will prove some novel interrogation technique and the Umbarians are behind it after all. “You are an Elf!” he croaks back in answer.

The white-fiend seems unfazed by the accusation. “That I am.”

A shudder runs down his back at hearing the words spoken aloud. “What have you done to me?”

The Elf draws a deep breath, as if the tale is a pain. “We rushed you off the battlefield, drained a quart of blood from your chest and set eight broken ribs.”

This does little but add to this alarming riddle. “Why?!”

The Elf casts him a look that seems very near terror. “Because I want you to live. I very nearly came too late.” Another deep, struggling breath. “You have been lying here, tossed between life and death for three days and nights. I am … beyond relieved to see you awake. It was a near thing.” 

He does not dare ask why him instead of any other, lest he provoke the agitated creature into a fit of rage. Instead he looks about, at the lavish tent and the bed of richly carved cedar wood. A white tree leaps out from amidst the geometric inlays. 

“Where is here?”

“We are in the encampment of Gondor, as King Cemendur’s guests,” comes the matter-of-fact answer.

This leaves him to wonder why the King of Gondor would suffer these white-fiends walking among his army. Another thought arrives on that one’s heels, about houseless spirits and possession and other unspeakable horrors, and he can feel himself blanch. “Gondor and Harad are allies. Why would you take a Haradi prisoner?”

The Elf shakes its head. “You are no prisoner. Please, do not be afraid. I mean you nothing but good.” 

“Then why did you take me?” he dares to ask.

“Because you would have died otherwise,” answers the creature, before decisively changing the subject. “Are you hungry?” 

A memory strikes him, quick and terrible as lightning, of fireside songs and stories. White-fiends desire captives, and to accept as much as a sip of water from their hands will ensnare a man in a net spun of sorcery. He lowers his eyes to the blanket of fine Gondorian wool covering his legs, and shakes his head as he rest of him trembles with fear. 

The Elf keeps its gentle temper. A smile lights up the fair face like cloudbreak. “You need some sustenance. We have broth. Upon my honour it is nothing more than that.”

No tale he ever heard mentions whether white-fiends would possess a sense of honour. He is still considering that question when the Elf turns to the the door flap to accept a steaming cup from someone standing by out of sight. The hearty smell of cooked chicken wafting from it seems at once too mundane and too wholesome for preternatural trickery, and his own stomach betrays him with a growl. The sound brings a smile to the Elf’s high-cheeked face.

Lifting the cup to his mouth is near impossible, with his shaking hands barely obeying his will. He is painfully aware that his own well-worn undershirt has been replaced with one of fine linen bearing intricate, alien whorls of embroidered leaves and stars, many hours of skillful work. Spilling soup over it could be more than his life is worth. The Elf watches him struggle for an instant, but soon one white hand lifts the cup from his hand. The other one rises to rest against the base of his neck and push him up to sitting. He cannot help but shudder at the touch. He had imagined the creature’s white skin cool and moist like a grub, or fish scales perhaps. Instead it proves warm and deceptively human. 

When the empty cup is finally set aside he shakes with exhaustion. His own weakness drives home that this Elf could mistreat him however it wished, and yet for some unfathomable reason did not. Between that slight safety and the leaden weight of weariness, sleep takes him once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why was this road not taken? Glorfindel neatly summarizes the problem: there was no believable way Elrohir would ever come to trust Glorfindel enough to follow him willingly, and for Glorfindel to drag him to Rivendell against his will would have been completely OOC. 
> 
> Even so, writing this chapter was a lot of fun! I enjoyed describing the Elves from an outsider perspective, and the present tense allowed me to really get into Elrohir's head.  
How would you have solved Glorfindel's (and my!) problem? Any thoughts about what Elves may have looked like to those Mortals who never heard much good about them? Do you like the chapter's style? Would you like to read more of it?  
I'd love to hear from you in the comments.
> 
> Idrils Scribe


	7. Sketches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This scene is from an abandoned plotline for Northern Skies. It used to sit between chapters 9-10.

Winter had sunk its icy teeth into the snow-draped valley of Imladris, but the Hall of Fire was an island of warmth and cheer. The Midwinter celebration was at its merriest, and heady scents of mulled wine and echoes of song drifted through the House. 

Elladan was not among the Turuhalmë revellers, and neither did he yearn for it. Elrohir could not have borne a crowded evening’s entertainment surrounded by unknown Elves. 

Instead of the Hall’s merrymaking, Elladan had joined his brother in their rooms. Sweet apple wood burned merrily in the hearth. Elladan had lit the fire himself, to spare Elrohir the presence of others. Solitude gave him peace of mind, and Elladan could tell that he had begun to feel safe in this sanctuary. There had been no more talk of nighttime intruders or knives in the dark. 

Elrohir’s room bathed in warm candlelight, the curtains drawn against the dark outside. Elladan had availed himself of a small copper kettle of mulled wine. It sat in the hot ashes beside the fire, emptying steadily as the night wore on. 

Elladan was going through Elrohir’s belongings from Harad. With anyone else a search through their personal effects would violate good manners and boundaries, but between the two of them it felt right. Elladan was exploring territory that was rightfully his, and Elrohir wholeheartedly agreed. 

Elladan had begun by examining Elrohir’s Haradrim clothes and gear, and now he lifted a roll of much-stained leather tied with cords from his battered saddlebags. Elrohir looked up from where he laid sprawled on the bed with a cup of hot wine.

“Those are just letters,” Elrohir had had just enough to drink to put a slight slur in his voice, and Elladan smiled for the little imperfection. “Take a look, if they interest you.”

"This seemed a little too casual. A sense of secrecy and sadness hung around these keepsakes, and Elladan would not rest until he knew.

The letters were written on coarse sheets of reed paper, densely covered in fine Haradi. Elladan could see no similarities with any script his tutors had acquainted him with. Whatever rambling tales Elrohir had written in these mysterious missives, no one in Imladris would be the wiser. 

“Who are they from?” he asked.

“Hamalan and I wrote each other whenever we could. I always kept her letters, and when …” Elrohir’s voice was briefly lost when he swallowed “... when she died I took mine out of her belongings, to have the whole correspondence.” 

Elladan knew not what to say. He had never met anyone who died, or heard of such a thing happening in his lifetime. In silence he leafed through page after yellowed page, transfixed by the drawings. 

Every single corner and margin of Elrohir’s letters was filled with clear-lined charcoal figures. Lion cubs writhed in mock combat while their mothers crouched for the kill. A small antelope bounded away, stirring up dust clouds in its path. A scorpion carried death in its tail. Snakes slithered, camels strode, a battle-elephant towered over a group of men, tiny as insects beside it. 

“Did you draw this?” Elladan stood stricken by the work’s clarity, every subject reduced to its vibrant, unique essence with a sharp economy of strokes.

Elrohir nodded. “I was fond of Hamalan, and she was sad far too often. Those silly things made her smile, and so I drew them in every letter.” His voice was deliberately light, pretending he might have done the same for just any acquaintance.

Insight struck Elladan, alien and distressing. “You loved her very much.”

“I did.” Elrohir’s answer was matter-of-fact, but his eyes shone wetly.

In an instant Elladan was beside him, an arm around his shoulders. It seemed cruel to dig up Elrohir’s sorrows like a miner in search of mithril, but Elladan knew how grief tended to fester if carried alone. Elrohir seemed to understand, because he leaned into Elladan’s embrace.

As gently as he could, Elladan dug further. “Would you have wedded her, if Glorfindel had not come for you?”

Elrohir’s face held a softness that was sad beyond tears. “I believed I would, after the war. I asked her before, but she would say neither yes nor no. Perhaps she knew there would be no ‘after’ for either of us.” He let out a shuddering sigh. “Shall we talk about something else?”

Elladan nodded, eager to distract Elrohir. He rose and turned to the chest beside Elrohir’s writing desk. The contents were untouched, and with a stab Elladan of sorrow realised that Elrohir had not dared use them for fear of being thought a thief.

He removed a sheet of paper and a charcoal stick. “I lack a lady’s charms,” he said with the cheeriest smile he could muster, “but will you draw something for me?” 

Elrohir was glad for the chance at lightness. “Gladly, and no need to kiss me for it! What would you like?”

Elladan tried to think of a subject that would not remind Elrohir of war and loss. 

“I have never seen a real camel. I wonder what they look like when they’re newly born. Would you draw me a foal?”

Elrohir had risen to sit on the bed’s edge. He smiled, and lifted the charcoal, but then hesitated, running gentle fingers over the sheet in his lap. “This is very fine paper, far too good for drawing follies. Perhaps we should find a slate?”

Arts and lore were highly valued in Imladris, and Elrond and Celebrian would no more begrudge Elrohir his dinner than a sheet of paper. “There is plenty of it,” Elladan reassured his brother, ”and all gladly given. Mother would be thrilled to see you create something fair.” 

That was no lie: any Elvish behaviour of Elrohir’s would indeed make Celebrian sing for joy. 

This finally convinced Elrohir. At first he was clumsy with the paper’s unfamiliar softness, but with a few swift strokes a newborn foal on awkward stilts blundered to standing on the page, dark eyes filled with wonder at the new world surrounding it. 

As Elrohir worked disjointed threads of song drifted in from the Hall of Fire, and echoes of distant laughter. Elladan paid them no heed. He needed nothing more than this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lockdown goes ever on and on, and while digging through old notes I came across this deleted scene, which I had somehow forgotten all about. 
> 
> This is from a very early version that didn't make it into NS because I decided to go with music instead of drawing as Elrohir's 'softer' skill, given how important music is in both Tolkien's worldbuilding and Elvish culture. I hope the scene can bring you a smile, be it a bittersweet one.   
My rediscovered doc contains several early drafts for deleted scenes from Northern Skies. I'll post them here once I've given them a polish, so keep an eye out for them. Of course I'd love to hear your thoughts on this piece. A comment would make my day! (and kudos are nice, too!)
> 
> Idrils Scribe


End file.
